


Argue, Argue, Argue with Me (Endlessly)

by sleepingheartsawake



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingheartsawake/pseuds/sleepingheartsawake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diaz and Boyle. "It’s a Tuesday the first time he sees her and he thinks. Wow." Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Argue, Argue, Argue with Me (Endlessly)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Title is from Elizabeth Bishop’s poem, “Argument.” Don’t own Brooklyn Nine-Nine characters. This is sort of AU, sort of not. I had written part of this a while ago and then had to revise a bit as the plot diverged on the show. Some spoilers for episodes that have already aired.

* * *

It’s a Tuesday the first time he sees her and he thinks.

_Wow._

Then she speaks.

And he thinks.

_Wow._

.

.

.

It’s three months later the first time she sees him.

She says, “You new here?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

She turns back to her paperwork.

.

.

.

The thing about him is this: he likes to talk about it.

The weather, his cases, his failed relationship, he talks.

It helps him process, makes him feel connected, lets him know there are other people in this world, that he’s not the only one.

The thing about her is this: she suppresses the urge to punch him every time he talks about it.

.

.

.

Holt likes to pair them up and at first she’s reluctant, because she sees the way he walks (well, stumbles actually) and talks (mumbles) and drops things (the fumbling really has to stop) and come on. _This_ guy is going to be her partner?

But then she works a couple of cases with him and watches in amazement as all of his nervous energy and uncomfortable words and awkward stances seem to melt away when he’s being a cop.

She can respect that. She understands being in the zone.

She knows he’s got her back. She’s got his too.

.

.

.

Being partners doesn’t mean she doesn’t get annoyed.

He likes her. (She knows this. Hell, everyone in the Nine-Nine knows this.) She’s just not sure why he does.

And he has terrible taste in stakeout food (veggie burritos?) and music (if she has to listen to “Islands in the Stream” one more time . . .) and friends (she will never understand why he idolizes Jake so much).

But there are moments where they sit in silence and wait. And they can do that. It’s not weird or awkward or uncomfortable. It’s just . . . fine.

She needs fine.

.

.

.

Then she gets shot.

And her world gets turned upside down.

His does too.

.

.

.

He visits her in the hospital and they both know this isn’t like the time he got shot in the behind. This is real and serious and potentially career ending.

In his hand, he holds a balloon bouquet and a teddy bear that’s hugging a heart that says, “Sorry.”

She stares at it.

He follows her glance and then shoves it away.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I know it’s not good enough. Nothing will ever be good enough.”

“You didn’t shoot me.”

“Yes, but I didn’t stop you from being shot either.”

She blinks once, then twice.

“Boyle,” she says, surprised by how soft her own voice sounds. He looks up at her. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It should’ve been me,” he says back.

But she shakes her head. “No, he knew it had to be me. It had to be me, because if he had shot you, I would have killed him. He wouldn’t be sitting in holding cell B right now, he would be dead. You’re a far calmer person than I will ever be.”

He smiles a small smile at her comment. “I did use extra force when I threw him to the ground.”

“Good.”

.

.

.

Physical therapy sucks. She begins to worry that she’ll never be back to her normal self after the third week when her knee shows no signs of improvement. The therapist tells her to just keep pushing and it will get better.

She gives the therapist an exact location where he can shove his words of wisdom.

Which is apparently not allowed, because she has an appointment with the department shrink the next day.

Dr. Shrink asks the typical questions and she gives the answers she’s supposed to. But then . . .

“Who are you, Detective Diaz?” she asks.

“I’m a police officer.”

“Beyond that?”

And she doesn’t have an answer.

She pushes harder the next day in physical therapy. The therapist says she is beginning to improve, but she’s pretty sure he’s lying so she won’t yell at him again.

.

.

.

Being shot is scary. He gets that. It’s basically coming face-to-face with the fact that you are going to die and realizing that it could happen at any moment and at your workplace no less. That’s not something most people have to deal with.

That is something every cop has to deal with.

What he doesn’t get is why she’s shutting down so much. Why she’s pushing everyone away (more than she usually does).

He might miss her a bit. Oh, who is he kidding? He totally does.

But he backs off anyway.

.

.

.

She goes to work and she goes home and declines offers to go out and she’s not even sure why.

She just needs to be alone.

There are so many thoughts in her mind and she might die. Not today obviously, but maybe tomorrow. And she doesn’t want anyone to feel anything really when she’s gone.

Death is just the ending of life.

But as she lays curled up on her bed she can’t help but feel a little scared.

It’s a new and strange sensation and she longs for the days when she was fearless.

.

.

.

He takes to leaving food at her desk.

An extra soufflé he had been making, a crumb coffee cake here, a Tupperware full of chicken tetrazzini there.

She’s not eating much (he’s noticed, of course he has) and he wants to help, but he also doesn’t want to get yelled at or ignored anymore.

So the mysterious food deliveries begin.

She smiles a small smile when she sees his item of the day.

He’s calling that a win.

.

.

.

She calls her sister more now.

And tries not to be as sarcastic. Which usually doesn’t work, but at least she’s trying, okay?

Because in the weeks that pass, she realizes that her knee is getting better. And she will be fully restored soon and she is more than just this job.

She’s not sure exactly what she is, but she is more.

Dr. Shrink would call that progress.

.

.

.

In the end, she comes to him.

And it’s not because he saved her (he didn’t). It’s because she survived. She has survived and he has survived and he’s still here month after month, year after year, even when she shuts him down time and time again.

He’s still here.

And he gives her space when she needs it (which might be because he’s a little afraid of her or it might be because he gets her) and he brings her takeout and doesn’t stick around to eat it with her and in that moment, she recognizes that he’s probably written her off.

And she can’t stand the idea that he may no longer see in her the person she is searching for.

So she knocks on his door.

.

.

.

He doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door.

Although, to be fair, she doesn’t give him much time to react at all.

He tastes like toothpaste.

.

.

.

After, she gets dressed in the darkness and tries not to wake him.

“I’ve always been a light sleeper, you know,” he says, leaning over to turn the light on.

She squints and says, “I’m just gonna go.”

“No, at least let me make you breakfast,” he insists.

“It’s 3:45 in the morning.”

“I’ve always said that the three to four o’clock hour is the ideal time for pancakes.”

She stares at him because of course he would have an ideal time for pancakes. Of course.

She stays and he mixes the ingredients together while wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron and humming _My Funny Valentine_ and the whole thing is so normal that she feels as though she might throw up. This, all of this, is not her.

_Then who are you?_

That small voice seems to have entered with the bullet and nestled its way up into her subconscious.

And she still doesn’t have an answer, but she’s beginning to get an idea.

She’s not surprised his pancakes are delicious.

.

.

.

It’s a Tuesday the next time he sees her.

She took Monday off.

She has always hated Mondays.

“Boyle.”

“Diaz.”

And he hands her a coffee and returns to his desk.

She takes a small sip and smiles.

.

.

.

End.


End file.
